I’m well overdue for a haircut. So overdue, in fact, that I’ve had to dig through Fashion Week photos from April to find a photo where my hair isn’t pulled back, or wet, in a lame attempt to disguise this mismanaged mane – and not even in a windswept Parisian way. So overdue, that I have split ends for the first time in a decade. So overdue, that I am finally booked in for Wednesday with Paloma to sort this mess out.
Now, while I know damn well that I will 100% end up asking for, “Just blunt, and to the collarbone, you know?”, I still spend the 24 hours in the lead-up frantically texting Alex, girlfriends, and Google, in search of some dramatic signature hair epiphany. To this day, my hair remains virginally unbleached or coloured, and since my 19th birthday, choppy at the shoulder – with just one tentative foray into a real bob, which was gladly grown out over a European Summer and only to be revisited when I’m 30, or when I finally bleach the lot white in frustration.
Meanwhile, my affinity to visible knees is now virtually nil (save the odd sherbert Singapore situation, or shredded Summer denim). Where there are dresses involved, there are always pants or boots to the rescue. Where the climate is intolerably steamy, well that’s just too bad. Flirty hemlines dancing above Gremlin-faced knees seem so wrongly juxtaposed that even a bellybutton might be more attractive (but again – how odd are bellybuttons?).
And so is born the burning life question: what’s in a hairline and a hemline to speak for your age?
Does first-impression maturity come with straight, severe locks that mean serious boardroom business?* Does a special kind of sex appeal come with the imagination beyond exposed ankles, more than exposed butt cheeks? Is this outfit-hairstyle combination just a total Grandma situation to be reserved for the impossible Karlie Klosses of the world, in all their 8 feet of stature?
To the issue of our hair, I am certainly of the opinion that shorter, less girly lengths seem more professional and composed – and, on that, I know there are boundless cans of radical feminist worms to be opened, but for real, I just molt like a bear if I ever let my ends grow past my shoulders. More than once, I’ve contemplated a Michelle Williams pixie cut with a back story of career accomplishment and self-confidence, but again – something for when I’m actually accomplished and self-confident at the grand age of 30.
Knees, on the other hand, like pineapple ponytails, are cute in fledgling tween years, and a downhill spiral from there on out. There are surely millions to be made in knee-foundation, knee-highlighter and knee-concealer. Anyone? Anyone? Until then, mine will be safely hibernating, until the necessities of bikini weather strike again.
*DISCLAIMER: for the record, my hair does nothing but stay straight, so I really have no choice in this particular matter